


Guessing at numbers and figures

by glovered



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 99 Problems, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-27
Updated: 2011-06-27
Packaged: 2017-10-24 09:16:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glovered/pseuds/glovered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dylan meets Dean Winchester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guessing at numbers and figures

**Author's Note:**

> written for [](http://shinyslasher.livejournal.com/profile)[**shinyslasher**](http://shinyslasher.livejournal.com/) for [](http://help-japan.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://help-japan.livejournal.com/)**help_japan** , for the prompt Dylan/Dean from "99 Problems", and a feeling of longing or coming home.  
> 

Everyone in town was pious now, but more often than not church in the off-hours was still a sure place to find solitude. Dylan had been coming here even before the end of the world.

He had a pretty badass guitar solo playing at full volume and so it came as a surprise when he looked down the pew and saw he'd sat a row away from the guy they'd saved the night before. Dylan pulled an earbud out.

Dean was sitting with one arm slung along the back of the bench and his voice sounded scratched and echoed harshly when he said, "Hey."

"Hey, I didn't see you there."

"So, whatcha listening to?"

Dylan reached into his hoodie pocket to turn the music down. He was listening to Houses of the Holy. "Switchfoot," he lied, just in case.

"Right," Dean said. "Christian rock."

Dylan shrugged. "Are you here to talk to someone? Pastor Gideon's checking on ammo, but I could run and find him if you want."

"I'm good, thanks."

Dean didn't seem intent on conversation, so after a silence that was a little uncertain, Dylan settled back against the seat and listened to half of The Crunge, low through one ear. He looked up at the altar and high windows that cut clear up to the ceiling, a mess of wrought iron and colored glass. He tried to take himself out of context enough to imagine what Dean saw in their old church, thinking how the town was planted in the middle of what seemed to be nowhere, one long highway that nearly ran over the town rather than through. It was a bump in the road and it was always raining.

Turns out Dean was considering the stained glass. He tipped his chin at the scene that took up half the back wall and said, "What's that of?"

Dylan knew this one. He'd sat here in this church since he was a kid and the scene was familiar. "It's a rendering of the Last Judgment."

Dean snorted. "What is this, art history? In English, man."

No one talked like that around here, self-deprecating and impatient. This felt like a glass of fresh water. "It's exactly what it sounds like: the second coming of Christ, Satan trapped in eternal torment, you know."

"Right." Dean checked his phone and then looked to Dylan. "You guys are sure on lock-down around here. Can't say I blame you."

Dylan shrugged when he said, "It's been prophesized. And we're following the word of angels." Dean was a stranger, but he seemed decent; Dylan thought he should be told, even if he wouldn't believe it.

"Right, right."

Four months ago and Dylan wouldn't have believed it himself. The first time Leah had received word that they were the Chosen and that demons walked the earth, Dylan had been listening to Sabbath. He'd never forget how his mom had shaken him by the shoulder to get his attention, and even after that, he'd laughed before he realized everyone else in the church was quiet and serious, the only sound a few muffled sobs that echoed in the rafters.

When Dean didn't laugh, though, just leaned with his shoulders back against the glossy wood of the pew and splayed his legs, Dylan took out the other earphone. He said, "How about you? Is it just you and that other guy?"

"Who, Sam?" When he smiled tightly, he looked scuffed around the edges and world-weary. "Yeah. He's my brother so it's just me and him against the world. So to speak. You?"

"My mom and dad. But this place is a family, we're in it together." Dylan believed it, but he got the sense that he'd said the wrong thing when Dean's expression turned wry.

"You hold on to that," he said. He stood up and stretched, a gun just visible in the inner pocket of his jacket and probably a knife at his ankle. He was dangerous, like today had been a fluke, and he didn't usually need a truck full of guys to save him with a fire hose full of holy water and Enochian ringing through a megaphone.

Even though Dylan'd been out hunting with his dad a few times years back, shooting rusty cans off tree stumps, he always felt queasy when he carried a rifle now. Guns had come to mean shooting people instead of empty Campbell soup cans, and, frequently, the thick smell of flesh in the air. At such times, he worked desperately at convincing himself, reminding himself, that the bodies weren't people, they were just demons.

Dylan sat for an hour after Dean left before finally getting up himself. His head felt clearer and he pushed the heavy doors out and pulled his hood up, zipping his jacket against the air. It had been slate gray and creepy out ever since February, after the frost melted away. The last few months had been like a horror movie on livestream, so much so that he'd never watch another B-rated monster flick again. He'd seen all the movies they collectively owned, anyway, and the parish had cut the internet lines weeks ago.

    


  
"What's up, Blondie?"

Dylan was a total dude and had never had someone call him a cute nickname in his life that he liked. Before this, he'd been on the soccer team and also did curling. He wasn't twenty yet, but he could bench press two-forty. These facts scrolled out in his mind as a testament to his manliness, to make up for the fact that he felt hot in the face and couldn't help the flashing moment of relief when Dean recognized him standing by the bar.

"This is Sam," Dean said.

The other guy gave Dylan a furtive look, but then Dean smacked him on the back of the head and Sam said, "Dean, stop being a—"

"You're the one being a killjoy over here. Say hello to the friendly local."

Sam rolled his eyes, and said, "Who's the one who said we're all gonna die in a month, seriously Dean. Such a hypocri—"

"So," Dean said, louder, and Dylan realized he hadn't moved on, he was just standing at their table, a half-smile on his face watching this play out. It was a long time since he'd met anyone new, and these guys were good people, he could tell. Dean said, "Dylan, you remember Sam, and I'm apparently a hypocrite. What are you drinking? Take a seat."

"I don't drink," he said, but he pulled up a chair and took a seat anyway.

"Huh. Seriously?"

Dylan laughed. "Seriously."

"So, what, can I buy you a coke or something? A root beer float?"

"Sure."

"Seriously?"

Dylan shrugged. "What are you, on repeat? Yeah, get me a coke. Just because I don't drink alcohol, doesn't mean that I don't stay hydrated."

Sam looked over at that. "Soda, and definitely whiskey, do not keep you hydrated."

"They're not big on science out here," Dean told Sam. "Now chill out and go get the guy a drink." He pulled out a leather wallet and handed a few worn dollar bills to Sam who just looked kind of pissed, but Dylan had only just met him, that could have just been the guy's face for all he knew. Sam headed up to the bar and they watched him flag down Paul.

"I like science," Dylan said.

Dean ignored this and tugged at the cord of the headphones that slung around Dylan's neck. "So, whatcha listening to now? More Jesus love songs?"

He had to come clean. "Earlier," he said. "I lied. I was listening to Zeppelin."

Dean's eyebrows raised up real high. "Oh _re_ ally. I thought lying was against your credo."

Dylan shrugged, but felt inexplicably pleased. He wrapped his headphones around his ipod and shoved it back in his pocket.

Now that they were alone, Dean didn't tell Dylan to chill out, to take off his jacket and look on the bright side. A girl Dylan knew passed by with a wave and Dylan said hey back and Dean said howdy with his own jacket still on, a flash of his gun visible again in the yellow bar light.

By the time Sam came back with drinks, they were talking about stupid shit, in a way Dylan wasn't able to with people his age in town or even over at school. Sam clunked a glass down in front of Dylan without comment, and proceeded to peel at the label of his beer.

There were a lot of people there, everyone seemed to have stepped up their drinking now that the end of the world was nigh. Most of them nodded to Dylan and said hey as they passed by, eying Sam and Dean. Dylan felt like he was entertaining the wrong sort of people, travelers of unknown quantity, but also like some small time celebrity. Everyone was curious, but no one came up to talk for long.

Meanwhile, it felt like some sort of waiting game. Dean kept smirking mid-sentence, like they were talking about something completely different than the casual conversation they seemed to be having, and Sam spent a lot of time going back up to get drinks but really leaning against the bar and talking to Paul, who seemed relieved as Dylan felt to have someone new around to talk to. Dylan sucked down coke but he still felt warm like he'd been drinking something else, and when he finally took off his jacket, it did practically nothing to help the heat he felt crawling across his arms and prickling across the back of his neck.

"It's impressive how you guys have rallied, stayed cool-headed," Dean was saying. "We've never come across something like this."

"And that's why they're going to be fine," Sam said, frowning at him like it was an old argument.

Anyway, Dylan couldn't take any credit for any of it. "We've got Leah. Nothing in school prepares you for this, that's for sure."

"Yeah, what do you study?" Dean asked.

"Psychology. I was working on my Associate's."

"Oh, right."

"I used to go to the community college just fifteen miles down the highway. I was scheduled to transfer somewhere upstate right about this time, but communication's out, and there's not a lot of need for a psychologist when the Rapture comes, so...."

The last classes he'd been enrolled in were psychology of war and basic health. He'd driven back into town one afternoon in the truck he borrowed every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, wheels slicking over the road in the drizzle and then bumping down the dirt road past the grocery store. He remembered parking outside his house and how his mom had met him in the kitchen and told him that a lot of things would be changing, that the pastor's daughter had had another prophecy and they'd be learning to ready themselves. The first thing Dylan had thought was how he'd finally studied for a midterm and apparently it had all been for nothing.

Weeks later, after he'd helped outfit their town like a compound with barbed wire and iron fences, after that he'd stood in the upstairs bathroom and stared at himself. He'd analyzed his calm eyes and recent behavior in the mirror, jacket sleeves pulled down, fingerless gloves and a complete immersion in his iTunes library. It all pointed to one thing: shock.

He was sucking on an ice cube now. He talked around his numb tongue. "I guess plans changed."

"Sorry about that."

Dylan waved this away. "Man, I had different ideas for 2009, that's all I'm saying. It's not _your_ fault."

"Actually it is," Sam said, and Dylan laughed.

"Yeah, I hear you. We're all to blame. You do what you can, though, is how I feel about it."

Sam was funny, turned out, but reserved. He kept making these quiet jabs that took a second to get, and he looked kind of gratified when Dylan laughed. He had nothing on Dean, though, who was fully engaged, even kicked Dylan's shin under the table once so that Dylan winced and said, "What are those, steel-tipped?"

Sam shifted in his chair, then, and Dean gave him a look and said, "What's up?"

"It's getting late."

Dylan thought it was kind of pointed and Dean seemed to, too, because he gave an exaggerated roll of his shoulders, met Sam's eye and said, "I'll meet you back at the room."

Sam squinted at him and then stood to his full height. He nodded at Dylan and left, just like that. Dylan watched Dean watch Sam go with a calm sort of concern on his face. "Is he angry?"

"Don't worry about him, he's got loads of stuff to be pissed about, and this one isn't high on the list." But Dean didn't turn back to the table until Sam had disappeared out the door.

"Another round?" Dylan said, kind of hopeful.

"Only if you're matching me one-for-one."

Dylan just shrugged and Dean rolled his eyes. He came back moments later and clunked two glasses on the tabletop.

"Where are you from, anyway?" Dylan asked.

"Kind of everywhere. Your folks always been believers?"

"My parents weren't even religious before this, not really. But after receiving the word of God into our own community, you kind of can't help but believe."

By the time they were on their sixth, it was getting late, but Dylan didn't want to go home yet. There were peanut shells stacked high in a small bowl and dust and salt coated their fingertips. Dean had an arm slung behind the empty chair and was rolling a few shells along the tabletop where they'd scattered, sending Dylan some unreadable look again and again, and Dylan was meeting it, wondering whether he'd been the one to start it or if he had it the wrong way around.

So much so that when they finally left by the side door at last call, stepping out into the wet space between buildings, Dylan went for it, just pushed in warm and close, winding his hands in Dean's jacket and angling his face to catch Dean's mouth.

Dean didn't stumble back, but he was definitely surprised. He let out a muffled noise and caught Dylan's full weight by the elbows as the door slammed shut. They were just about the same height, Dylan felt Dean's gun pressed into his hip and heard their belt buckles clack together. Dean breathed into his mouth and Dylan licked against his top lip, urging him open.

"Ah," Dean said after a long moment, during which the silence had altered and wound around them. He pulled fractionally away, pressing Dylan back with a quiet hand to his chest, thumb smoothing unnecessarily against the hollow of his throat.

"Mm?" Dylan fluttered his eyes open, quick enough to catch Dean licking at his bottom lip and looking him over unreadably, memorizing his face maybe. Dylan wanted to wrap himself up in that jacket and curl them together against the clapboard wall, but he sort of knew it wasn't going to happen, judging by the look on Dean's face right then. He kissed at Dean's jaw, roughing his lips against stubble right below the ear, then found his mouth again, quick, because this was it.

Dean groaned quietly when Dylan took the moment before rejection to sneak his cold hand up under Dean's shirt and push blunt fingertips up his abs. He would have done it again but Dean caught loosely at his wrist through the cloth.

"Look," he said. "Though it pains me to say it—and you have no _idea_ how it pains me to say it—this is not the best time."

"I'm open to excuses."

Dean shrugged, not an apology, but a little regretful. "Apocalypse. And besides, I've gotta get back." He jerked his thumb in an arbitrary direction, over a shoulder. "My brother."

Dylan laughed at Dean's expression. Of course he wasn't going to beg or anything, wouldn't go angrily quiet. His front did go instantly cold though when he moved away, and he stepped in a puddle. "Get out of here, then," he said. "What's keeping you?"

Dean's mouth hooked around a smile. He shrugged a shoulder and tugged at Dylan's ear, kind of aimless affection that warmed him to the toes, even though it was a one time only kind of deal. "See you around."

"See you tomorrow," Dylan amended, and allowed himself a second to watch him walk away. You took your joy where you could, and anyway, Dean was someone who deserved to be let off easy, he honestly believed that.

    


    


He remembered coming for Sunday school when he was four feet tall and outfitted in a Ninja Turtle t-shirt and the vague faith of a ten-year-old whose parents used the church as daycare and moral enforcement rather than a place of worship. Fifteen years later and his feet moved soft across the thin carpet of the room near the vestry. It was just after breakfast in the mess and Dylan had been on his way home when he ducked in the side door of the church at the first sign of rain, when his electronics started getting wet. The room was blue-lit with light off the March clouds and was being used for emergency food and plastic jugs of water which had been stacked up to the ceiling.

Their compound was only so big and sometimes he needed a place to go sit without his mom telling him to take out his headphones. The skin of his hands was chapped from trying to wash off gun oil but inside here it smelled like nothing but incense, old dust in the air that you could almost taste and only small sounds appropriate. Being here, he felt less-watched, more introspective.

Before he could move in through to the church, he heard voices, a scuffling of shoes that echoed up toward the heavens aided by architecture. Dylan leaned moody and apathetic at the door jamb to wait it out, soaking up Metallica through his left ear so that he didn't pick out the voices until there was a lull between songs.

It was Dean and his brother. That hurt tone stood out like something sore, so unlike the changed voices of his parents and his friends. Dean spoke derisively, unflinchingly honest, almost to the point of sacrilege.

"Of course it's your business, but it's not worth getting pissed off. We're moving on in a day or two anyway."

"Dean, we've been in this town a day and you've already picked up the boy next door. Jesus Christ."

"Church, Sam. Watch your mouth."

"Exactly my point!"

Dylan could see Dean leaning against a pew and Sam pacing near him, one hand at the back of his neck. Crystal light fell across both of them, the attempts of sunlight through stained glass falling murky and quiet.

"Ha," Dean said. "Ha, that's very funny. Are we done here?"

Sam put his hands in his pockets and looked mulish. "No."

"Sam."

"Look, I know I give you shit."

"Sam—"

"I know I give you shit, and sometimes it's warranted, sometimes it isn't. But this time it _is_ Dean. He's just a kid."

"Kid? That guy's older 'n we were and he's running around, shooting demons with little to no training, doing a hell of a job of it. And believe me, he's no saint."

"But he doesn't need this. It's only going to mess him up even more."

"I know." Dean collapsed back into a pew. "I know, okay? I know." He fiddled with his jacket sleeve, but then looked up through his lashes when Sam came up and bumped their knees together. "Nothing....nothing happened. Let's just—"

Dylan's view was obscured for a second by the back of Sam's jacket, but then he could see again, could see how Dean's eyes started to flutter closed and how his mouth went all pink and uncertain before Sam had even laid one on him.

Dylan left out the back door, because that kiss—well, it looked real. If he had ever been witness to a portent, it was then and there, like the homecoming he'd felt the night before was being played out before his eyes without him.

He went back to his house a few blocks over and lay on his bed with a book on his chest, listening to Coldplay. He ended up staring at his ceiling for a good two hours under the scratchy sheets, boots by the door and shotgun leaned against the coffee table, feeling at once estranged and at peace, replaying how Dean had let him move in close for at least a minute outside the bar, although maybe less. He tried to hold on to the feeling of Dean's hand against his chest, even though it had been staying.

Everything seemed in relief now; the shadows thrown by the speakers propped on his dresser and the cut of his computer fell hard over the floor. There was the distant sound of church bells and the clouds outside were smudged and angry in expectant grays and a purple so dark it was black.

This didn't have to change anything, he knew, in the grand scheme of things. Dylan listened to The Scientist five times on repeat before forcing himself to get up and find something constructive to get his hands on, and then, in light of Leah's prophecy that afternoon, Dean and his brother came with them on a hunt.

  



End file.
